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Ballister woke, worked his way through his usual training regime, showered, and dressed.
He found Nimona in the kitchen. “Morning boss!” she grinned, “Our wall of evil plans has been updated, I sharpened all the weapons, and I posted your hate mail.”
“That’s… wait, my what?”
Nimona turned to him. “You know, your hate mail. The letters to your nemesis about how much you hate him and how you’re definitely gonna take him down!”
Ballister ran a hand over his face and swore under his breath. “Nimona, that – that wasn’t hate mail.”
“Really? Because, I mean, I didn’t read all of it, but I flicked through, and you definitely said you hated him a few times.”
He had, too. But… “That’s not what it was about,” said Ballister. “He – he was never meant to see those letters.”
Nimona shrugged. “Well, no harm done. He could figure out that we’re going to kick his ass with or without your hate mail.”
“It wasn’t hate mail.”
*
Ambrosius,
I’m writing this with my left hand, which is why my handwriting is a mess. I can’t hold the paper still either, so I had to weigh it down at the edges so it wouldn’t keep moving when I wrote.
I’m writing this with my left hand because my right hand is gone, because you cut it off.
I understand why you did it. I really do. You had to stop that weapon from firing.
But did it have to be my whole arm? Not just my hand? Could you have cut through the weapon instead of me?
Maybe not. Heat of the moment, what were any of us thinking?
I don’t know what to think. Someone swapped out my sword, someone framed me.
And I don’t know why.
There isn’t going to be any more to this letter. My arm hurts too much from the shitty crap bad job I did sewing it up. Not like I could go to a hospital. And I don’t have any painkillers. I kept passing out while I was fixing myself up. Blood loss and pain don’t really help with concentration, but at least I’m not going to bleed to death. Probably.
These first few days are going to be the worst. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Then things will start to feel better as time goes on.
Your boyfriend,
Ballister
~
Ambrosius,
I’ve been sleeping a lot. It’s a miracle that I can sleep at all, with the pain. But my body needs rest to heal, so no matter how much it hurts, I still manage to drift off, even though the place where I’m hiding is short on comfortable places to lie down.
I miss you. I wish you were here.
Your boyfriend,
Ballister
~
Ambrosius,
I’m starting to heal. To be honest, the days are blurring together for me, but the stump is looking much better – comparatively better, that is. The scar’s still going to look awful no matter what.
I’ve been remembering to eat more often (I was forgetting to eat), and it’s made me feel so much better. Things still ache, but I’ve started doing my exercises again. The best knight in the Institute has to keep that up.
But I suppose I’m not any kind of a knight, or part of the Institute, anymore.
We always said we’d do it together.
Your boyfriend,
Ballister
~
Ambrosius,
My handwriting is better today, because I finally finished working on the prosthetic. It’s not exactly pretty, and there’s definitely some fine-tuning I want to do before I’m completely happy with it, but the dexterity is good, and I’ve found that I can use it to hold a sword – after all this, I can still fight.
And I can write with it, which I’m very proud of.
Do you see this? Your boyfriend built a mechanical prosthetic with one hand and a box of unwanted spare parts. Are you impressed? Awed? A little bit turned on? You should be.
I know everyone probably thinks I killed the queen, but now that I’ve got the prosthetic working, I can start on clearing my name. I’ve already got a few ideas.
My sword couldn’t have been swapped without the squire noticing, so I’ll start with him. Then I’ll find the next clue, and the next, and then I’ll be innocent again.
I’ve got this.
Your boyfriend,
Ballister
~
Ambrosius,
I saw the news broadcast, and I saw the look in your eyes.
You think I did it. You actually think I did it.
You think I killed the queen. On purpose.
After everything she did for me. You really think I did that.
I’d still be starving on the streets if it weren’t for her.
And you think I killed her?
Do you really think I’m so monstrous? So much of a villain? Do you really think I could spend years lying to her – lying to you?
You think I did it.
You don’t trust me. Maybe you never did.
Did you ever really know me? If you knew me, you’d know I was innocent.
But you think I’m guilty.
So I guess you don’t know me at all.
And you’re surrounded by gold and glass at the Institute, and I’m sitting in this shithole dump, and it’s like none of it ever happened. You’re in the glittering castle. I’m squatting in a derelict building. It’s like all those years of training never happened.
Like we never met.
Like you never knew me. And maybe you never knew me.
I really loved you, you know.
Ballister
~
Fuck you. Fuck you for cutting off my fucking arm. Fuck you for thinking I killed the queen. And fuck me for thinking anything good or genuine could come from fucking the fucking descendant of Gloreth.
Did I ever mean anything to you? Was I just an easy lay? The street kid so starved for love that he’d fall for anyone who looked at him? I thought I could trust you. Rely on you. I thought I could –
[Illegible due to tear stains]
– can’t believe I ever thought you knew me. You never knew me. And that hurts worse than losing my arm.
I’m going to prove I’m innocent and then you’ll know how wrong you are.
*
The paramedics had fussed over him like anything. Ballister supposed that was one perk of everyone deciding he was a hero.
But Nimona had been the real hero, and he had no idea if she was alive or dead.
Once the doctors had wiped off the dirt, cleaned the cuts, and checked his vitals, they mostly left him alone.
Then he was given some clothes in his size, and access to a shower.
Ballister washed the grime from his hair and his skin, then changed into the clothes. They were exceptionally comfortable. Another hero perk, he supposed.
The right sleeve of the dark blue shirt they’d given him sat oddly over his prosthetic, but it looked mostly okay.
Once he was dressed, he was ambushed again by a nurse, who applied more antiseptic to his cuts, then gave him a bottle of water with the instruction that he should keep hydrated.
Ballister sat on the side of the hospital bed, looked at his armour, scratched and piled up neatly in one corner, and drank half the bottle in careful sips.
There was a knock at the door. Ballister put the cap back on the bottle, and set the bottle down on the bedside table.
“Come in.”
Ambrosius poked his head round the door. He looked nervous, almost shy. “Hey… How are you?”
Ballister shrugged. “It’s just bruises, really. I only hope that Nimona…”
“Right.” Ambrosius swallowed. “The, uh, the hospital has a roof garden. If you want to get some air.”
“… Alright.”
He followed Ambrosius through the impersonal hallways of the hospital, until they reached the staircase which led up into open air.
The roof garden was simple – gravel and plants, a few small trees, a railing running around the outside of it, with a modest water feature in the middle.
On other nights, it might have been peaceful, but from the roof they could still see emergency services putting out fires from the attacks the Director had ordered against Nimona.
“Clear night, huh?” said Ambrosius, utterly failing at seeming calm.
Ballister turned to him. “Look, whatever you’re going to say to me, just say it.”
Ambrosius’ face fell from its previous forced cheer. “Right. Right.” His shoulders slumped. “Bal, I… I screwed up. I should have trusted you, I shouldn’t have just taken everything the Director said as truth. It took me way too long to open my eyes to what was going on, and if I’d let myself realise it sooner… A lot of people might have not got hurt. And I –” He flushed and cast his eyes down. “I read your letters.”
“Those were never meant to be sent,” said Ballister hastily. “I was just trying to get my words out, you were never meant to see them.”
Ambrosius looked up at him, eyes damp. When he spoke, he could barely get the words out. “You said you loved me. Past tense. And then, after The Antlered Serpent, I said I loved you, and you didn’t say it back. I… I just… I’d understand, if you didn’t anymore. If you couldn’t. After everything I did.”
Ballister looked into Ambrosius’ dark eyes and said, “Of course I still do. Even after everything. You had my back, in the end. When it mattered. And you did save lives out there.”
Ambrosius looked at him wordlessly for a single moment, then moved forward and hugged Ballister with all his strength. “I missed you,” he sobbed. “After the ceremony, I thought I might have killed you. I didn’t know where you were, or if you were safe or if you were dead. And then you weren’t dead and I still nearly ruined everything. I – I should have been there for you. You should have had someone to patch you up. Hold your hand. I should have stayed with you, gone into hiding with you like a proper boyfriend. But I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there.”
Ballister hugged him back. This was the thing which had always felt right: having Ambrosius in his arms. The rest of the world could stop making sense, but as long as he could hold Ambrosius, he’d never feel lost. “I missed you too.”
Ambrosius pulled back by a fraction and held Ballister’s face in both his hands. When he kissed Ballister, the kisses were feather-light and tender, brushing his lips, his cheeks, his forehead.
Ballister wanted more. He pressed the hand of his prosthetic to the small of Ambrosius’ back and pulled him closer, kissed him deeper. He rested his forehead against Ambrosius’, closed his eyes, and breathed in the cool night air.
They wore mirrored expressions of relief.
“When the hospital lets us go, come to my apartment,” Ambrosius said. They’d been flirting with plausible deniability for years, never quite acknowledging how close they were, afraid of the media storm if people found out that a street urchin had grown up to date the descendent of Gloreth herself. But it didn’t matter what anyone thought of them anymore. “I want you to stay with me.”
“We’ll go there together,” said Ballister.